


And we could hold hands like paper dolls

by Mosca



Category: Gossip Girl RPF
Genre: F/F, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 19:43:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mosca/pseuds/Mosca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scenes from a backstage romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And we could hold hands like paper dolls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fodian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fodian/gifts).



> Love to my beta, k! Title is from "The Whole Night" by Ani DiFranco.

"Did you hear I'm going out with Ryan Gosling?" Blake said, taking off her shirt. Blake loved the way Leighton stared when she undressed, a smile playing at her lips, like Leighton had a whole speech in mind but knew she didn't need to bother with it. Blake wanted to hear the speech sometime, because she loved Leighton's voice, too, and thought she was too silent sometimes, held back as if this were a statement for the press and any word could be the wrong one.

Leighton was being proof that deshabille was sexier than naked, her short brown print dress unzipped and sliding down her shoulders to reveal no bra underneath, one pointy pump dangling off her toe and the other kicked across the room. She was her own silent porn movie. "Well, you did go out with him. In public, where people could take pictures of you."

"So that means we're having sex," Blake sighed, resigned to this tabloid truth. She unzipped her jeans to show off her black lace thong but didn't take anything off. "It's stupid. You and I go out all the time, in public, and hold hands and kiss cheeks and nobody ever thinks _we're_ having sex. And you and I, we actually _are_ having sex."

"The Hollywood double standards," Leighton said with the back of her hand to her head like a girl in a silent movie who'd been tied to a train track. "They are oppressive."

*

They were in Blake's trailer, drinking Chinese medicinal tea to cleanse and purify. It tasted like old apples, sandalwood, and tar, but Leighton swore it was good for you. Blake was heating up the leftovers from last night's frittata experiment, which had come out a little brown around the edges and wet from too much asparagus, but Blake would be the only one to notice there was anything wrong with it. "Don't feed me," Leighton said, "you'll make me burst right out of character."

Blake leaped into Leighton's lap and tickled her stomach, knowing it annoyed Leighton to death, knowing she loved to be annoyed. Leighton had once called it Blake's little sister syndrome, begging for attention she'd already won. "Oh, you'll go to the gym later. Or you'll skip breakfast tomorrow. But you'll eat what I feed you."

The microwave beeped and they ignored it, kissing.

*

"You cannot wear that," Blake said. "You may not wear that."

Leighton was holding a dress up to herself; it looked like it was made of tinfoil and Kleenex, with an open back. "My stylist said to wear it over leggings." So that was who was responsible for putting Leighton in Jenny Packham. Leighton had been beaming when she'd pulled it out of her closet, but now she wore the pout of ego deflation. It seemed she'd liked the dress until Blake had come along and ruined it.

"Maybe with a good shoe," Blake tried.

Leighton let the hanger slip off her finger so the dress fell to the floor. "I can't just dress like you. I mean, aside from how I wouldn't want to."

"Why not? We could be red carpet twins. We could be like those old lesbians who don't know whose Birkenstocks are whose."

"I can't dress like you," Leighton said, "because I don't have the boobs for it."

That was an invitation, and Blake took it, grabbing Leighton's breasts and telling her how much she liked them, pushing them up so she could kiss them.

Leighton was apparently thinking about shopping, not sex. It happened. "I have this red one. It's simpler." It was so much Leighton's kind of dress, low V neckline and short skirt. But to be honest, Blake loved how she looked even in bad dresses. She had the neck for it, the legs, the butt, the lipstick smile.

*

Blake and Leighton were sitting off-set waiting for the set dressers to fix some continuity issue involving books and a curtain, holding hands across the armrests of their chairs. Ed bust between them, breaking their hands apart. "Red rover, red rover, let Ed come over," Leighton said, but he looked at them quizzically, like he'd missed the reference. Maybe they called it something different in England.

"You know, the kids' game," Blake tried to explain, but the joke was already dead.

"So when are you two coming out on the cover of US Weekly?" Ed said, hands in the pockets of his Chuck Bass three-piece suit. His slicked-back hair made him look devilish no matter how much he was being Ed and not his character.

"My publicist put the kibosh," Blake said.

"Her publicist thinks she should date Ryan Gosling for real." Leighton reclaimed Blake's hand.

Ed made a face. "Wouldn't his real girlfriend have something to say about that?"

"All my boyfriends are marriages of convenience." Blake circled her thumb in Leighton's palm, wondering if it still tasted like last night.

"Convenience for who?" Ed said.

"Oh, the life of an actual walking heterosexual in Hollywood, so hard," Leighton said.

"Especially with a foxy accent," Blake added. "Bug off."

Ed shifted his weight, eyes twinkling through his skeptical squint in a way that blurred the character and the man. "The fans would think you were hot. If you came out. In my opinion. People like pretty lesbians. They like to imagine them kissing."

"Bug _off!_ " Blake giggled, wishing she had something to throw at him.

"I'm telling your publicist," he whistled, walking away.

*

Blake went to L.A. for an awards show, some press, and a couple of special appearances. Some of her co-stars complained about that stuff, the things that made their job feel like work, but Blake liked being herself, liked the fans and the free gift bags, the unbelievable perks of fame. Someday soon, she wouldn't be so lucky. And in an apartment somewhere in Southern California, a journalist was writing about how genuine Blake's smile was.

When she got back to New York, she felt glad to be home, then ashamed that L.A. didn't feel like home anymore. California was where she'd grown up, but New York was Leighton. New York was coming back to a sparkling white apartment that was all hers, the kitchen counters begging for a new mess. Her stand mixer whispered, "lemon layer cake." She should have been tired from her flight, but planning a menu gave her a second wind, and she headed to the grocery store Her assistant could shop for her, sure, but her assistant had no eye for produce, which resulted in the kind of arguments that gave a girl a reputation as a diva. Was it so unrealistic to get annoyed over broccoli with yellowing flowers, or salmon from the tail end of the fillet, or conventional apples when she'd specifically said organic? Maybe it sounded that way. Better to take her own initiative.

When Blake came back with her bags full of just the right ingredients, Leighton had let herself in and was waiting in the kitchen as if she knew that was where Blake would land. She shook out her hair and unzipped her dress as Blake put her bags down. "Hey, sacred space," Blake said.

"I know, I know," Leighton said. "But I got your attention."

*

They walked their dogs together, holding hands, swinging their arms back and forth between them. At the dog park, they let the pups off their leashes. "They'll make good step-doggies," Leighton said.

There was a paparazzo waiting behind a tree like he was being clever. Blake blew a kiss in his direction, then planted one on Leighton's cheek. _Let 'em guess,_ she smiled to herself. _Let 'em wonder._ She was an actress, after all.


End file.
